


Gray and Red

by deletable_bird



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alien Romance, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Human/Troll Society, Alternate Universe - School, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Awkward Conversations, Awkward Crush, Awkward Flirting, Awkwardness, Banter, Boyfriends, Chemistry, Cold Weather, Crushes, Dating, F/F, F/M, First Kiss, First Meetings, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Flushed Romance | Matesprits, Friendship, Getting Together, Halloween, Halloween Costumes, High School, House Party, Insults, Library, M/M, New Year's Eve, New Year's Kiss, New Years, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Old Friends, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Party, Reminiscing, School, Secret Crush, Siblings, Snow, Soulmate-Identifying Timers, Soulmates, Teen Angst, Teenage Drama, Temporarily Unrequited Love, Third Wheels, Tutoring, Underage Drinking, Unrequited Crush, Unrequited Love, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-10
Updated: 2016-07-06
Packaged: 2018-04-03 17:30:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 16,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4109158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deletable_bird/pseuds/deletable_bird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>The flower—the flower, it's . . . it's delicacy and strength. There's an imperceptible fragility to the boldness of the color. It looks loud, out there and brave, it looks like passion and heat, but a cooler, more human kind of heat. It's striped with a paler version of itself that emanates an ethereal kind of refreshing springtime feeling. It is, to put it in a nutshell, fucking beautiful.</em><br/><br/>In which you only see color once you meet your soulmate, and the first color you see is the same as your soulmate's eyes.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Gray and Red, Patience and Cluelessness](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4025359) by [HolidayRose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HolidayRose/pseuds/HolidayRose). 



_September 2010_

In a world where you didn’t see color until you met your soulmate (you’ve always thought the idea of soulmates was stupid, but you didn’t create the universe) and the first color was the same as your soulmate’s eyes, you could hear the names of colors, you could formulate your idea of what they would look like, but once you actually saw them, there was no knowing the reaction you would have, what kind of emotions would flood through you.

You, personally, were completely defenseless, exposed to the core, in the middle of a crowd when you first saw anything that wasn’t some gradient of black and white. It was a flower (cheers, cliché floral revelations) and it was absolutely stunning.

You, for one, were a great fan of flowery literature and symbolic metaphors. You were no slouch at describing things using obscene amounts of adjectives (usually profane adjectives, to be honest, and usually not out loud) but you were literally at a loss for thoughts as your eyes fell on this—this—um.

You didn’t realize you had stopped in your tracks, quite literally, until someone pushes you forward. “Get moving, moron,” says an irritated voice, which you dutifully ignore.

The flower—the flower, it's . . . it's delicacy and strength. There's an imperceptible fragility to the boldness of the color. It looks loud, out there and brave, it looks like passion and heat, but a cooler, more human kind of heat. It's striped with a paler version of itself that emanates an ethereal kind of refreshing springtime feeling. It is, to put it in a nutshell, fucking beautiful.

Someone rests a chin on your shoulder, and you can practically hear the grin on Terezi’s face. Of course it's Terezi. No one has a chin that razor-sharp.

“Can you see it, Karkat?” she says, her voice surprisingly gentle. You swallow, nod, croak out something resembling a “yes.” 

“It’s beautiful, huh?” she says wistfully. You turn your head, and her pointy glasses (there was that color again, her glasses are that color, holy shit was it amazing) poke you in the side of the face. Blind and, presumably, forever alone, unable to tell who her soulmate would be. It's practically impossible not to feel sorry for her. At least until you met her. 

“Unbelievably so,” you tell her, ducking out from the agony of being her chin rest. “Are you free today?”

She loops her arm through yours, leaning back on her white cane (striped with that color, sweet grubmother of God wow) with her trademark Terezi grin nearly splitting her pointy face in half as she poses, jaunty and seemingly unaffected by the world population around her, slowly gaining the ability to see one of the things that made life really worth living, without her. 

“Why Mr. Crabapple, you are in a wonderfully wonderful mood today.”

“Well, it’s kind of hard not to be,” you say, glancing around. Everywhere you look, you see it. One kid’s backpack has accents of it among the gray and black. Every time you blink, different shades of it seem to come to life. A girl passing by you and Terezi is wearing a shirt of that shade that had striped the flower, the achingly delicate blushing color. The entire school—the _entire school_!—is a darker, muted shade of it, every separate brick a vaguely different shade.

There's so much _depth_ to the world, it's breathtaking.

“Are you or are you not walking me back to your hive?” Terezi says impatiently, breaking through your color-induced trance. You jump and made a half-assed effort to come up with one of your famously loquacious insults, and utterly fail.

“Yeah, sure.”

The crowd’s already thinning out, and you’re still in a kind of blur. The color is everywhere, more flowers and cars and bits of hives and clothes and makeup and some of the trolls’ signs. You burst into your hive, leaving Terezi at the door, and find your lusus as fast as possible.

He tells you the color is red, and you’re sorely disappointed. What a boring name. _Red_. One syllable, and it’s the most inadequate syllable in the history of history.

You drag Terezi to your respite block and look up _red synonyms_ on your husktop. The results are far better than plain old _red_.

“Scarlet, vermilion, crimson, ruby, cherry, cerise, cardinal, carmi—”

“Okay, Karkat, I get it,” she says. You look up each one individually, goggling at the myriad of shades. You don’t think you’ll ever want to see a different color. You can just cherish each and every variant of this amazing, this—this.

“Karkat,” says Terezi, and you look up at her, still in a kind of stupor. Red-induced stupor.

“What?” you ask.

“How many people do you think have red eyes?”

“I don’t fucking know,” you say, leaning away from your computer but keeping your eyes fixed on the image results for _cochineal_. “Does it matter? I don’t think I could care less about finding my soulmate right now, this is too pants-shittingly huge.” You stand up, practically bouncing over to her and shaking her by the shoulders. “I can see _another fucking color_ , Terezi! A whole new—new—thing, I don’t know, but it’s fucking brilliant.”

“Language, wriggler, you’re only six sweeps,” she giggles, putting a finger over your lips. “But seriously, Karkat, how many beings alive would have red eyes? I’ve never heard of anyone’s googlers being described as red.”

You snort, but traipse over to your husktop and look up _red eyes_. As you scroll through the results, something akin to horror bubbles up inside you.

“Ohhhhh fuck,” you say, reaching the bottom of the first page and scrolling back up to the top to click on the first result.

“What?”

“It’s—” You swallow. “It’s apparently really rare. ‘Albinism’ says this article. Fewer than twenty thousand cases in the country a year.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah.”

It’s very not _wow_ , though. It’s very, very discouraging.

* * *

_December 2010_

That morning in chemistry (your best subject) a boy you don’t know drops two very incompatible chemicals on the floor, resulting in a grade B firecracker that gets the classroom evacuated and the boy—Dave—sent to the front office. That afternoon you got called to the front office as well, five minutes before the last bell. 

“Karkat is going to be tutoring you in chem for the rest of term, Mr. Strider,” says the vice principal, her pile of pale hair teetering precariously as she smiles at both of you. Her lipstick is red, and lopsided.

Dave gives her, then you an incredulous look, though it’s rather masked by the idiotic pointy shades obscuring his eyes. You wrestle with the urge to stick your tongue out at him, and just barely win.

“How often?” you ask, and are informed for at least one hour after school every day, at the town’s public library. You bury your face in your hands. This is going to be a pain in the ass.

Dave follows you out of the office. You wait until you’re nearly to your locker to confront him, then turn around. “Look, even though I’m tutoring you doesn’t mean you have to follow me like a lost dog, okay?”

“Dude, my locker’s past yours,” he says, an impressive poker face firmly in place, and you mentally facepalm. Without saying another word, you whirl on a heel and speedwalk to your locker.

He strolls past you fifteen seconds later, his posture positively abhorrent and his hands shoved deep in his pockets. He pauses behind you, and you refrain from whirling around and slugging him. His very presence makes your skin crawl with dislike.

“What?” you ask sharply, and he makes a noise that clearly says _are you for real_?

“Just wanted to make sure you were planning to grace me with your presence tomorrow afternoon,” he says. You spin around, your books clutched to your chest.

“Yes, unfortunately,” you snap, “and I will see you then, for one hour precisely, no less and _especially_ not more, and I will have no more interactions with you than necessary. Fuck you very much and goodbye.”

You stride away, your heart beating like a rampaging wildebeest. Swearing isn’t allowed in the halls, but it slipped out and honestly? You’re hard-pressed to regret it.

“See you then, dickfart!” comes a cheery shout after you, and you nearly run back and give him what-for with your two thousand page history textbook. Only the thought of one-upping him with your detention record keeps you walking sedately—not really, but it’s remarkable considering your state of outrage—toward the front doors.

Once outside, you pause, finding a girl with a red shirt and fixing your gaze on it. It calms you practically instantly. You decide, spur-of-the-moment, that red will be your favorite color, no matter how beautiful all the others are.

Then your eyes fall upon something black, which reminds you of Dave’s stupid sunglasses, which reminds you of your new job, which makes you sigh.

This is going to be an ordeal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you realize the ramifications of this AU? Just think. Blood castes. Terezi's ability to smell colors. SO MUCH POSSIBILITY.
> 
> If you like this story and would want to read more, leave kudos and comments (critique and requests for new fics are appreciated) and/or share this on your preferred social media platform <3 Thanks!


	2. Chapter 2

_December 2010_

Figures he’d be fucking _late_.

Your fingers tap on the front cover of your well-worn chem textbook, seemingly of their own accord. It's a boring rhythm, but your mental capacity is currently completely involved with being 10% annoyed with Dave Strider and 90% marveling at _red_.

It's _everywhere_ , so many different subtleties and shades, and you can’t tear your eyes away from all the vibrancy, even months later. The day red got boring would be the day you lost hope.

The door opens around the corner, letting in a blast of wintry air that you can feel from your seat at the table within view of the front desk. Strider sort of tumbles inside, a pale leather coat with those artistically worn darker patches on the shoulders and sleeves wrapped firmly around him. His hands are gloveless, and you raise an eyebrow as he glances around, finds you, and troops over to your table. He doesn’t stop hugging himself, and he’s not doing a very good job of suppressing a violent shiver.

“Think you’ll survive?” you say archly, your finger-tempo speeding up as he smirks, letting out a shaky kind of huff.

“No, I’m crippled for life,” he says. “Can’t you tell Vantas, that brief foray out into the Alaskan-esque wintertime has me frostbitten and in need of serious amputation, call the hospital quick because we don’t know if this breed of cripplingly evil cold-burn spreads or not. Can I sit down?”

“Sure, fine,” you say, aloof, and flip open your textbook. He slides into a chair, tucking his chin into the collar of his coat, and rubs stiff, reddish fingers against each other. They look awful. His teeth are chattering like shit-awful as well.

“Are you going to survive?” you ask, and he tries to crack a smile that doesn’t quite make it through from the idea to the actualization.

“I am the epitome of surviving. I am so fucking surviving that the last time someone even connected the words _dead_ and _Strider_ in two vaguely related sentences it was my great-great-great-grandfather’s funeral, and I was there to hear it.”

“You talk a lot.”

“Really, I hadn’t noticed.” He leans forward, a smirk curling the corners of his mouth, and enfolds one of your hands in both of his. “Maybe you can fix that for me.”

You wrench your hand out of his grip (not before noticing they’re still deathly-cold, but that’s beside the point) and wrinkle your nose disdainfully at him, ignoring the blush that threatens to spread across your face. “Shut the fuck up and listen.”

He slouches back against his chair and shoves his hands in his pockets. “Teach me everything, senpai, my kokoro is hungry for knowledge, kawaii exclamation mark exclamation mark number one et cetera.”

He deadpans this so effectively you’re not sure if he’s actually a living being, but you refrain from giving him any kind of victory and don’t react, instead flipping open the chemistry book to the page detailing the formula Dave fucked up yesterday.

“Look,” you say, and explain it to him, going through the text line by line. He doesn’t look like he’s listening, but when you quiz him he repeats everything close-to-perfectly. You give him a look, which he returns with an arched eyebrow that just perfectly transcends the rim of his shades.

“What is it, oh almighty chemistry master?”

“None of your business.” You look away.

“Isn’t the apprentice supposed to inquire into the mentor’s well-being, slowly worming their way closer to their master’s heart until they can seduce him in firelight with wine and careful posing?”

“Shut up.”

“What’s this?”

This statement emerges from neither yours nor Dave’s mouth, and you look up with remarkable surprise. A pale-haired girl is standing with one hand propped on the back of Dave’s chair and the other up by her face, a single dark nail visible against black lipstick. Dave glances up at her, makes a _really? now?_ noise and commences a fixed scrutinization of the tabletop.

“Who’re you?” you ask before you can stop yourself and she gives you a smile that clearly says if she doesn’t know all your secrets now, she’ll be finding them out tonight and using them in every possible way she can to get back at you.

“Rose Lalonde,” she says as she leans over Dave’s shoulder, holding out a graceful hand. You’re not sure if she wants you to shake it or kiss it. You settle for ignoring it. She lets it drop to the chem textbook, nails tracing over the title. “Ah.” Her voice is soft, and dangerous. “I see. You’re my dear brother’s tutor, then. Your name is?”

“I—Karkat Vantas,” you say without wanting to. This girl has a way of carrying herself that commands answer. You decide on the spot that you dislike her just as much as Dave. Actually more. If there’s one thing you do not condone (more than the multitude of other things you do not condone) it’s being told what to do.

“Oh!” She sounds vindictively pleased to have this tidbit of information. “Terezi’s friend?”

“How do you know?”

“Merely one of my personal connections,” she says, examining her nails before turning to Dave. “Have you fulfilled your pre-decided span of extracurricular work?”

“Goddamn, Lalonde, speak English,” he tells her.

“Good,” she says, and without preamble grabbing she grabs him by the arm and hoists him to his feet. “If you’ll excuse me, er, _Karkat_ , I have an appointment with my darling sibling. See you!”

She tows Dave out the door with a cheery wave over her shoulder. You stare after them incredulously. She wasn’t even wearing a coat.

* * *

\-- gallowsCalibrator  [GC] began trolling carcinoGeneticist [CG]  \--

GC: SO HOW W4S 1T?  
GC: 4R3 YOU TWO B3ST13S NOW?  
GC: 1 KN3W YOU’D G3T 4LONG >;]  
CG: SHUT UP. IT WAS ABHORRENT. I HATE HIM. I HATE HIS SISTER.  
GC: 4WWW, 1T COULDN’T H4V3 B33N TH4T B4D.  
GC: WHO’S H1S S1ST3R?  
CG: SOMEONE NAMED ROSE LALONDE, APPARENTLY. I THINK SHE’S SOME KIND OF WITCH.  
GC: CRU3L, KARKAT >:]  
GC: WH3R3’D TH4T TH3ORY COM3 FROM?  
CG: TELL ME, TEREZI. WHAT KIND OF UNEARTHLY BEING HAS THE PHYSICAL ABILITIES TO TAKE A LEISURELY STROLL OUTDOORS IN THIS WEATHER WEARING NOTHING LESS AND NOTHING MORE THAN SOME KIND OF BLACK DRESS AND FISHNETS?  
GC: 1’M GO1NG TO H4Z4RD 4 W1LD GU3SS 4T YOUR N3W FR13ND ROS3.  
CG: CORRECT, FOR ONCE. AND SHE’S NOT MY FRIEND.  
GC: OOH, ROUGH. YOU M4K3 M3 F33L SO UND3R4PPR3C14T3D.  
CG: WHAT AM I GOING TO DO?  
GC: 1 DON’T KNOW, T4K3 TH3 W1TCH TO COURT?  
CG: WOW, GREAT THINKING, I’LL TOTALLY DO THAT, BECAUSE A SIX-YEAR-OLD’S JUVENILE ACCUSATIONS AGAINST SOMEONE HE’S ONLY MET ONCE BEFORE WOULD TOTALLY BE TAKEN SERIOUSLY.  
GC: YOU 4R3 1N 4 V3RY B4D MOOD.  
CG: GET USED TO IT.

\-- carcinoGeneticist  [CG]  ceased trolling gallowsCalibrator  [GC]  \--

GC: 1 S1NC3R3LY HOP3 1 WON’T HAVE TO.  
GC: >:[

* * *

“Why are you avoiding me?”

You stop dead outside the library, startled, only to turn away and start on a beeline directly away from Terezi. She follows you, calling “Why are you so _grumpy_?”

Recognizing a hopeless case, you stop and turn around.

She puts her hands on either side of your face and you have the unnerving impression that she’s staring into your soul. “Calm down, Karkat, and tell me what’s wrong,” she says.

You very emphatically don’t, and she makes a hopeless noise and rests her forehead against yours. “You are so stressed, oh my God. You’re only six, you shouldn’t be acting all old and cantankerous.”

“Well,” you start, and then you’re finishing something completely different. “I think he’s flirting with me.”

Terezi’s head jerks up, and her familiar grin is suddenly firmly in place with a disconcerting abruptness. “We,” she says, poking you in the nose, “really, _really_ need to talk.”

You hadn’t realized how much you missed this, walking home with Terezi, arm-in-arm, her stupidly endearing cacklebeast laugh ringing through the air far too loudly. You spill everything to her, Dave’s perplexing behavior over the past week, his vague metaphors dangerously inching ever closer into the flirty range, your confusion, indecision, maybe even reciprocation?

“Oh my God, you two are blackflirting like insane,” Terezi giggles, her chin finding its familiar (painful) place on your shoulder. You snort.

“Like hell we are. He’s so fucking annoying, I don’t even know whether to punch him or abandon him to his chemistry-failing fate every time anything exits his stupid mouth.”

“You are _sooo_ black for him!”

“Shut up.”

You’re grinning though. Even though Terezi’s got it wrong about the blackflirting (so wrong, as wrong as mustard icing on a chocolate cake) it’s good to be able to talk to her again. You’ve been so confused, and this is making you feel like you’re somewhere closer to the point at which you can begin to sort things out.

You part ways at her hive’s door, and you walk home with a smile on your face.

* * *

The next afternoon Dave’s actually at the library before you, staring at his phone at your usual table. You hesitate before joining him, wondering what he has in store for you this time.

He looks up at you as you sit down and shoves his phone into his back pocket, saying “School me, sensei,” and leaning forward with his hands laced together on the table, everything about his posture earnest as anything save his flawless deadpan. You say the first thing that comes to your mind, which turns out to be pretty damn eloquent.

“Kindly shut your putrescent flesh flaps, attempt to curb the meaningless noise clamoring to burst forth from the deepest parts of your hideous soul, and listen.” You flip open the chemistry textbook and he glances once at the page and reels off the instructions on how to do the experiment from pure memory.

You shut your mouth with a snap after a good five seconds.

“What?”

“Your lesson planning is predictable as fuck.”

“Well,” you say, slightly flustered but regaining your composure, “you can teach me how to do the next thing then.”

“How is that good tutoring?”

“Don’t question my motives, asswipe. Actually, let me rephrase—you can _try_ to teach me. I expect no kind of success from your pathetic attempts at this fine art.”

“Wow, rude,” he says, snatching the textbook away from you and flipping a couple pages, glancing over the blocks of text. “Um . . .”

“Lost already?” you taunt. “Wow, Dave, even less than I’d expect from you.”

He looks up at you, down at the book, back up at you, sticks his tongue out right to your face—"Wow, _weak,”_ —and starts talking.

He’s actually surprisingly good.

An hour later, your attempted chemistry lesson has devolved into mere launching insults back and forth at each other across a metaphorical volleyball net, and it’s nearly forty minutes after your pre-established ending time when you finally glance up at the clock above the front desk.

“Shit, I need to be home,” you say, shooting up to your feet and sweeping everything you own into a semblance of packed.

“Wait, what?” Dave says, breaking off in the midst of a lengthy metaphor about the Pony Express. “I was just getting into my stride!”

“First of all, bad pun, and second of all my lusus is going to _freak_ ,” you say, hoisting your backpack over your shoulders and beginning the fastest abscond you’ve ever attempted out of the library. Dave stops you right before the doors.

“Yo, dude, come over to my place tomorrow after this,” he says, his poker face still valiantly holding on. You raise your eyebrow at him, agree (albeit grudgingly) and leave, not slowing down from a trot the entire way back to your hive.

It’s only once you’re safely in your respite block that what you agreed to hits you. You stop dead in the midst of unpacking your bag, swallow hard, then dart over to your husktop and open Trollian. This is going to take some serious working out with Terezi.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What about traffic light safety in this AU? Can you not drive until you find your soulmate? AND IMAGINE LITTLE KIDS TRYING TO DRESS THEMSELVES THOUGH, AND ALL THE GROWNUPS JUST LOOK AT THEM AND LOOK AWAY SMILING TO THEMSELVES, "AH MEMORIES" AND THEN LOOKING BACK AT YOUR CHILDHOOD PICTURES AND BEING LIKE, "I REALLY DRESSED LIKE THAT?" AND YOUR PARENTS BEING LIKE "THAT WAS YOUR INDEPENDENT PHASE" AND JUST LAUGHING?!
> 
> Also, cacklebeasts are hyenas if you hadn’t noticed.
> 
> Leave comments + kudos, people! As always critique and requests for new fics are greatly appreciated <3


	3. Chapter 3

_January 2011_

\-- carcinoGeneticist [CG] began trolling turntechGodhead [TG] \--

CG: DID YOU PASS?  
CG: DID YOU LOSE YOUR PHONE IN THE PROCESS?  
CG: YOU BETTER HAVE PASSED, I DID NOT WASTE FORTY DAYS ON A FAIL.  
CG: OR MAYBE I DID. GODDAMMIT, FUCK YOU ASSHOLE, I HATE YOU, ANSWER ME.  
CG: DAVE FUCKING ANSWER ME ALREADY, I’M LOSING MY SHIT OVER HERE.  
CG: DAVE, OH MY FUCKING GOD THIS IS THE MOST NERVE RACKING THING ON THE PLANET.  
CG: I’M NOT GOING TO SAY ANYTHING ELSE UNTIL YOU ANSWER ME.  
CG: OH YOU FUCKING ASSWIPE I HATE YOU SO MUCH ANSWER ME ALREADY  
CG: YOU ARE LETTING YOUR BF STEW OVER HERE IN A MIXTURE OF GUILT AND ANGER, SIZZLING LIKE A STEAK ON A SKILLET, WHILE YOU SIT OVER THERE COOL AS A FUCKING SEA CUCUMBER WITH YOUR IDIOT POINTY SHADES NOT GIVING ME A FUCKING SINGLE HINT IF YOU PASSED THE FUCKING CHEM TEST OR NOT. FUCK YOU.  
TG: bf  
CG: OH YOU ASSHOLE  
CG: I MAY BE LITERALLY INCOHERENT WITH RAGE  
CG: THANKS A FUCKTON.  
TG: kitkat you literally called me your boyfriend  
CG: THAT WAS SUPPOSED TO STAND FOR BEST FRIEND, FUCKER.  
TG: worst abbreviation of the year  
TG: you know youre the worst at metaphors karkles  
TG: it is you  
CG: LAME.  
TG: weak  
CG: FAILURE.  
TG: in fact a big fat success  
CG: FUCKING HA TIMES INFINITY. I KNEW YOU’D PASS.  
TG: there was never any question i would you must have realized  
TG: i had that shit  
TG: had it like a bag of doritos  
TG: cool ranch kind  
CG: THAT STUFF IS FUCKING DISGUSTING, I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU’VE EVER MANAGED TO CHOKE DOWN MORE THAN A CENTIMETER OF ONE OF THOSE ABHORRENT CREATIONS OF SATAN.  
TG: read what you just wrote and regret everything  
CG: HOLY FUCK I HATE YOU.  
TG: you are so fucking gay  
CG: NOT AS GAY AS YOU.  
TG: give me one instance in which i have ever given you even the beginning of reason to assume that i might be even a possibility of a type of minorly gay  
CG: THE ENTIRE TIME I’VE EVER KNOWN YOU, FUCKWAD, YOU ARE THE HOMO. IT IS YOU.  
TG: leech  
TG: cant even think up your own snappy comebacks  
TG: i dont know whether to be insulted or flattered that you resorted to copying my own brilliant work to try to attempt a burn  
TG: like wow that flame went out before it even had a chance at life  
TG: just went “fuck it im out” and went to sleep  
TG: that might have been sleeping beauty in burn form  
TG: only instead of waking up after a hundred years the prince comes along and says holy fuck that was weak and just leaves  
TG: and it just flickers out into a hopeless failure infinities worse than your expectations of my chem test grade  
CG: WHAT WAS YOUR GRADE?  
TG: you sir are a fucking perfectionist and you really dont need to know that  
TG: i passed with good marks thats all im saying  
CG: DID YOU TELL ROSE YOUR SCORE?  
TG: have you ever tried to keep a secret from that witch  
CG: GOOD, I’M ASKING KANAYA.  
TG: aw fuck thats low bro  
TG: i knew i never should have introduced you to that creature  
TG: have you even seen her with rose together its like sap village  
TG: all little face touches and smiles and tiny smooches  
TG: theyre literally an ocean of molasses its weighing me down like fuckall i can barely move  
CG: FIRST OF ALL, SHUT UP, YOU’RE LETTING THIS GET OUT OF HAND.  
CG: SECOND OF ALL, I’M ACTUALLY FUCKING IMPRESSED.  
CG: SAVOR THIS MOMENT, BECAUSE YOU’RE NEVER GOING TO GET ANOTHER LIKE IT.  
TG: i fucking hate you  
CG: SEVENTY EIGHT IS NOT A BAD SCORE.  
TG: kanaya seriously needs a talking to  
TG: i cant have these flighty broads flying around letting loose all my secrets like flatulence after taco night  
TG: id like to keep a few tucked safely up my intestines  
CG: THAT MAY HAVE BEEN THE MOST DISGUSTING METAPHOR YOU’VE EVER EMPLOYED IN MY PRESENCE. I’M SCARRED. WELL DONE.  
TG: im honored  
CG: ARE YOU COMING OVER THEN?  
TG: sure just us two huh karkles  
TG: wink wink  
CG: JUST BECAUSE YOU LET THAT SLIP FROM BETWEEN YOUR UNFAILINGLY GRUESOME TALK FLAPS I’M INVITING OVER ROSE AND KANAYA.  
CG: AND TEREZI COME TO THINK OF IT.  
TG: great tzs a laugh  
TG: a real mirthful experience  
TG: only not in any way shape or form like that horrifying creature makara his kind of mirth is seriously messed up  
CG: OH FUCK YOU, GAMZEE’S PERFECTLY FINE. HE’S JUST SPECIAL.  
TG: i didnt know you were a mother what other kinds of excuses have you had to make on the demon clowns behalf to get him into any kind of passably sane school  
CG: HE’S COMING OVER TONIGHT AS WELL.  
TG: this is a right jolly celebration swell karkles im just spiffing to get over there  
CG: THAT WAS AWFUL, NOW GET OFF YOUR COMPUTER AND COME ON.  
TG: okay mum see you in a jiffy  
TG: just walk a block or two take the lift upstairs to your flat stop for fish and chips and bobs your uncle  
CG: WOW.  
CG: STOP TALKING.  
TG: will do  
TG: see you in a sec

\-- turntechGodhead  [TG]  ceased pestering carcinoGeneticist  [CG]  \--

* * *

Terezi bursts into your hive in a whirl of pointy elbows, pointier cane, and pointiest smile. You swear everything about that girl is an angle, and a sharp one at that.

Rose and Kanaya (of course their relationship had to be perfect, finding each other within a week of seeing their first colors and getting together three weeks after that) come in together, arm-in-arm and dressed impeccably (like always, you kind of hate it but Kanaya’s skirt is still one of your favorite things about her). Rose simply nods and gives you that secret smile that’s obviously not genuine yet still impossibly polite, but Kanaya envelops you in a crushing hug, then, with a gentle hand on your cheek, makes you tell her everything. You do, and there’s even minimal swearing in her direction. You’re so pale for her it’s not even funny.

Terezi thinks it’s hilarious and sits beside you elbowing and giggling until Gamzee gangles in, grinning like a motherfucker and crushing you in a giant, bony (yet comforting) hug, upon which they set to blackflirting with an unmatched fervor. You warn them to _keep it in your goddamn pants, we don’t all want to see you guys noodle fencing_ and Rose actually snorts her drink up her nose. Kanaya maybe falls over.

Of course it’s now that Dave walks in on the utter chaos, and stands with the best poker face you’ve yet witnessed, surveying everything like a pompous ruler with defiantly bad posture. Rose, hiccuping, pulls him viciously over the back of your sofa, and he flails around so much that he ends up with his head in your lap.

“Well hey,” he smirks, raising an eyebrow at you, and you snort and pap him on the face but let him keep his head there. It’s even kind of nice after a while. Inclusive. Everyone’s part of a group here, however fucked up and relationship-complex it is.

You’ve got friends, you realize with a start. You have an inkling this realization should have come a lot earlier, but honestly who the fuck cares. You know it now, and you know it’s true, and it might just be the best thing you’ve ever felt.

You glance at the juggling club Gamzee is twiddling and nearly choke on air.

“Holy shit dude, what happened,” Dave says, sitting up so fast he nearly conks you on the chin with his head. You’re still staring at the juggling club with your mouth literally hanging open. It’s—it’s—

“Did you get another?” Terezi asks you, her nose uplifted in your direction.

“Oh my God,” you kind of stammer, then fall silent. The new color is like an undertone but standing out as well, soft and deep and kind of husky. It’s comforting and warm and foresty, but as you look around (your mouth is still open, you should really shut it) you find different shades, cool ones that remind you of minty tea and sleek clothing, pale ones that make you think of new leaves and morning dew, dark ones with an undercurrent of a different color that looks almost achingly melancholy but you can’t quite pin it down.

“Karkat, _say_ something,” says Kanaya, and you look at her, shut your mouth with a snap, and point to her sign. She glances down, then back up, then her face splits into an enormous grin.

“Green,” she tells you, and once again you are sorely disappointed. What a fucking lame-ass name for this new color. Of course you then promptly sabotage Dave’s phone and go through the same routine you did when you first saw red.

Thirty minutes of synonym listing and examination of green later Terezi shoots to her feet and says, “I think I’m going. Bye, Karkat!”

You glance up at her, realize you’re slumped against Dave’s side with his phone in your hands, and immediately shoot upright. “I—okay,” you say, flustered, and stand to give her a hug. You don’t look at Dave, and your face is burning like a volcano.

She smiles at you and gives you a chaste, brief kiss on the nose. “I think I like you best after colors,” she tells you before she leaves. “You’re sweet.”

You wrinkle your nose at her, never mind that she can’t see it, and push her out of the room, ejecting her out the door with a friendly shove. She laughs and leaves, pulling on her bright red coat as she leaves. You watch her down the street, not realizing there’s a smile quirking the corners of your mouth until Gamzee lays a cool hand on the top of your head. You look up at him, and then up and a little more up. This fucker is _tall_.

“What is it?” you say, and he gives you a grin that shines through the juggalo face paint with a vibrancy unmatched.

“I’ll be seeing you later, brother,” he says, ruffling your hair. “A motherfucker has things to do out in the big wide world.”

“You’re leaving?” you ask, the words coming out unintentionally needy. His smile gets a bit smaller but no less bright.

“You’ve got good friends all up in this place, Karbro,” he tells you. “I’ve a mind that you’ll be as safe as all motherfuck even if I leave.”

You open your mouth to say something but nothing comes out, so you just hug him instead. He crushes you even harder than he did when he arrived and you come out of his hold slightly rumpled but ridiculously happy.

He lopes out of your hive and down the street, his arms bare in the snow, and you don’t leave the door until he’s out of sight as well. You worry about him, in his pajamas on a January night. You worry you’ll lose him. You worry a lot, about a lot of things. You worry too much, but you hide it well.

“I think we’ll be taking our leave now as well, Karkat,” comes a low voice from behind you, and you turn with a look of consternation and irritation to see Rose and Kanaya, hand-in-hand. Kanaya envelops you in a far-too-tight-in-a-very-good-way embrace, and Rose even gives you a friendly hug. You wave them out and shut the door before they’re all the way off the front walk. However much you want to watch them out of sight, you’re freezing. It’s January, for God’s sake.

You don’t realize it’s just you and Dave left in the house until you’re in the room with him. He looks up from his phone and gives you a raised eyebrow. “Come back to bask in my glory, Kitkat?”

“Don’t fucking call me that,” you tell him, sitting down beside him. As you do you get a glimpse of his phone screen—he’s scrolling through the image results of _emerald_. He presses the home button too late. You look at him, inquisitive. He sighs.

“It’s all just gray,” he tells you. “Black, white, gray, other gray, more gray, and all the other grays.”

You don’t know what to say, so you don’t say anything.

“Was this your first color?” he asks you, and the amount of emotion he’s allowing into his voice is actually shocking. You shake your head.

“What was your first one?”

“Red.”

He stiffens briefly but slides back into deadpan mode barely a heartbeat later. “Wow.” His voice is falsely light-hearted. “That’s gotta be hard to find someone with a pair of red peepers.”

“Have you had your first color?”

He shakes his head. You press your lips together, glancing down at your knees and trying to think of a way out of the palpable awkwardness.

“There’s a couple other things I haven’t had a first of yet,” he says, shifting beside you so he’s facing you. His hand is on your knee. When did he put his hand on your knee?

His face is far too close to yours. You swallow, licking your lips, and he lets out a nervous huff of laughter, the corners of his mouth flicking upward into a smile for a heartbeat.

“Can I . . . ?” he says, and you know what he’s asking but you don’t, and your eyes dart to his lips for a reason you can’t explain but you know exactly why your gaze is suddenly glued to his mouth.

“I, um,” you start, trailing off when his mouth inches closer to yours. You can feel his breath on your nose and cheek now. It’s weirdly electric. Your blood pusher is beating like a fiend, pounding itself against your rib cage with a vengeance. You wonder if Dave can hear it. You’re so close he could practically feel it. Can he feel it?

Then you lurch backwards, shoving yourself to your feet, and words are spilling out your mouth with no filter between your inner panic and your mouth. “I, um, yeah, I should probably get to bed, you know, school tomorrow? So yeah I’ll message you, um, nice having you over, um—”

He’s talking at the same time. “Yeah, okay, sorry if I—I didn’t mean to be rude, but, yeah, um—”

You stop at the same time and you can feel his eyes on you with an intensity that sends tingles up your spine. Then the lock is broken and you scuttle out of the room, calling over your shoulder a breathless “Bye thanks show yourself out!”

In your respite block you take several deep breaths, then several more. Your heartbeat still hasn’t slowed down. You bury your face in your hands, then dart over to your window and look outside, hoping against hope that Dave isn’t already gone from your street.

He’s trudging down the street, his eyes downcast and a hat pulled low over his hair, his hands shoved deep in his pockets and snow settling on his shoulders and head. He passes under streetlamp, flickering between dark and light, never looking up from the snow. 

It’s ridiculously poetic and there’s something (not tears, definitely not tears) making your eyes prickle and burn but you don’t look away until long after he’s disappeared from view.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i . . . really got into dave's character up there
> 
> i'm impressed with myself
> 
> Anyway, just because I'm a beautiful, horrible, horrible, _terrible_ (seriously i kind of hate myself right now, brace yourself) human being, I posted this just before I go out of town. Into the woods. For two weeks.
> 
> Yeay. Go me. Such smart. Very nice.
> 
> Anyway, leave a shitload of comments and kudos for me to come back to, and critique and requests for new fics!!!! I will be overwhelmed but happy!!!! p@//u//@q
> 
> Love all you awesome nerds, and see you soon ;D
> 
> (ten points to gryffindor if you caught the artfulimpersonator reference)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry sorry sorry, short chapter, i know, but i'm just trying to get this thing back on the road. trust me, lengthy tales of angst and happiness will follow :P

_July 2012_

“Holy _shit_.”

You stop dead, barely avoiding colliding headlong with Dave’s back, and look up. “What?”

“Can you see—” he says, shading his eyes as he gazes up at the sky like he’s having some kind of holy revelation, not making any attempt to move. You look up at the sky, searching for whatever’s holding his attention so firmly in place, but the noonday gray with pale clouds and blindingly white sun is the same as it’s been all your life.

“I see nothing,” you tell him. “What are you looking at?”

“It’s—holy shit,” he repeats, seemingly unable to string two intelligent words together, and it hits you in the face like a brick.

“You got your first color, didn’t you?” you ask, and it takes him a moment but he nods so vigorously it looks like his head is going to come off.

“I—” you say, and stop. You don’t understand why, but for some reason it _hurts_ that his first color is one you can’t see. You want to congratulate him but the words won’t come, and you don’t think it matters anyway, because he hasn’t stopped staring at the sky and seems to have forgotten he still exists in a world with other existing beings.

“Oh my God,” he says faintly, and sits right the fuck down.

You hesitate for a second, then sit down beside him and watch his face slowly melt from absolute shock to blinding happiness. Eventually his gaze comes down from the sky and he starts looking around, taking in little gasps and grinning every time his eyes land on something the shade of whatever he’s seeing. Jealousy is pounding hot and sickly behind your grubscars, but you swallow it down and wait.

Finally he looks at you, and the widest grin you’ve ever seen him wear splits his face in fucking half.

“It’s so fucking pretty,” he says, his voice vaguely raspy, and you can’t help it. You snort incredulously.

“What?” he says, indignant, and you cough out a sighing laugh and tilt your head to rest on his shoulder.

“Hopeless asshole,” you tell him, and he pats your head awkwardly. It’s barely two seconds later that he shoots to his feet so fast you’re surprised he doesn’t break the sound barrier.

“Oh holy fucking shitballs and mother of Mary,” he says, and stops right there. You clamber at a more sedate pace to your own mobilizing flesh nubs and follow his gaze.

Your eyes land firmly on the new kid in town, the one who’s taller than you but shorter than Dave with the mess of black hair that could be a troll’s and the dorky square glasses. You look from him to Dave and back again, thoroughly confused, and the second realization brick sails smoothly through the air and gives you a bloody nose.

“Is he—does he—can you see his—” you stutter, and Dave only nods vaguely. The new kid with the troll hair glances over at the pair of you and gives you a hesitant, nervous smile. Dave chokes on nothing and smiles back, returning the cutesy little finger-wiggle Mr. New In Town bestows on him.

The kid seems to take this as an invitation to invade your personal space, and comes over with a sparkle in his eyes. The eyes that you’re ninety-nine percent sure are the color Dave can see. “Hey!” he says brightly, and Dave makes a quiet panicking noise in the back of his throat.

“Hello,” you say coldly, stepping closer to the idiot beside you.

The kid looks taken aback, and seems to stutter for something to say. “I—I’m sorry, I guess,” he tells you after a second. “I didn’t mean to be rude or something.”

“No!” Dave blurts out suddenly, turning bright red seconds after. You give him an incredulous look and he steps on your foot. “No,” he repeats, more sedately, “you’re fine. Karbabe here’s just jumpy because he doesn’t want someone intruding on his closely guarded gold mine of juicy gossip and pounce-worthy secrets.”

“Did you say!” You shriek, but Dave wraps an arm around your neck, effectively muffling your outrageous indignance at your newest nickname. The new kid’s face splits into a smile so wide you swear you can see all thirty-two of his idiotic, blunt-tipped, useless human teeth.

“Oh! Good,” he says, relieved. “It’s just, I’m the new kid and the new kid’s gotta tread careful around the old timers.”

“Are you calling me a—” you half-shout, wrestling Dave’s arm away from your mouth, but he only grinds his heel even harder into your toes and smiles at New Kid.

“I’m Dave,” he says. “And this is Karkitty.”

“Karkat!” You scream from the prison of his headlock.

“Egbert,” says New Kid, laughing. “John Egbert.”

And you can tell, from that moment on, that your poor, deluded best and only friend in all the world is absolutely hooked.

* * *

From that fateful day onward, it’s nothing but John. John this, John that, John blah blah blibbity. You learn far more about this idiot Egbert than you ever wanted to know, and every single bit of it is from Dave. John likes Nicolas Cage, isn’t he a dork? John’s dad collects harlequins (not clowns) it’s this weird power dynamic and Rose is analyzing it for me. John’s really good at piano, have you heard him play? John can bake insanely well, you should have him do the cake for your next weird troll birthday. John John John John John John John, and his _fucking eyes_.

* * *

_November 2012_

_“He fucking said yes, he fucking said yes!”_

Dave’s voice blares through the phone, nearly destroying your aural tunnel’s finer workings and creating the most effective sinking feeling in your stomach you’ve ever experienced. You really, _really_ don’t want to ask who said yes and what he said yes to, but you barely have a second to brace yourself before all your worst fears are being concerned.

 _“He’s my fucking soulmate, Karkat, John’s the fucking one,”_ he hisses into your ear, his voice distant through the phone line but just as devastating as if he were standing right beside you.

“Wow,” you say, unable to muster up any semblance of happiness. Your voice sounds hollow even to your own ears, and there’s a pause before Dave replies.

 _“You’re not deathly sick, are you?”_ he asks, and you barely suppress a half-insane laugh.

“No, no! I’m fine,” you tell him. He doesn’t say anything, and you don’t either. The silence spirals on, horribly thick and suffocating.

 _“Are you jealous?”_ he says finally, and your stomach performs a back tuck and double Arabian before completely failing the landing and puking all over the place.

“Why in the everlasting fuck would I be jealous?” you say, panic giving your voice new life, and you can hear Dave’s slight sigh.

 _“I don’t know, you just don’t really seem to like John all that much,”_ he tells you, and you cough out a falsely incredulous noise.

“Are you kidding! I love John! John’s the bomb!” you say without thinking, and the sound of Dave’s confused, vaguely anxious laughter lightens the ache in your heart just the tiniest bit. At least you can still make him laugh.

But once he finishes, he launches straight into a ridiculously detailed description of exactly _how_ the Egg-dork agreed to go out with him, and the pain in your blood pusher only returns with even more intensity than before.

And the only thing you can think is that this time, it might just be here to stay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all know the drill, kudos comments and all that great shit, and if you feel as if I would be the right person to write one of your fantasies held most dear, drop a request in my inbox and I'll get to work! Thank you guys so much, love you peeps!


	5. Chapter 5

_January 2013_

\-- carcinoGeneticist [CG] began trolling gallowsCalibrator [GC] \--

CG: I CANNOT FUCKING BELIEVE THIS ASSHOLE.  
GC: WH4T D1D H3 DO NOW?  
CG: INVITE ME OUT TO DINNER.  
GC: 1D H4VE THOUGHT YOU’D B3 OV3R TH3 MOON 4BOUT TH4T, WH4T’S WRONG?  
CG: HE INVITED ME OUT TO DINNER  
CG: ON A DOUBLE DATE  
CG: WITH HIM AND JOHN  
CG: EXCEPT IT’S NOT A FUCKING DOUBLE DATE, IT’S A PLOT TO MAKE ME THE UNHAPPIEST TROLL IN EXISTENCE BECAUSE IT’S A DOUBLE DATE WITH ONLY ONE COUPLE AND THEN ME, THE THIRD WHEEL.  
CG: WATCH OUT PEOPLE I’M ROLLING THROUGH.  
CG: I’M GOING TO FEEL LIKE A BABYSITTER. THIS IS FUCKING STUPID.  
GC: 1’M SORRY.  
CG: . . .  
CG: WHAT  
GC: YOU’R3 OBV1OUSLY R34LLY UNH4PPY 4BOUT TH1S, SO 1 THOUGHT 1’D 4TTEMPT 4 L1TTLE B1T OF CONSOL1NG  
GC: CL34RLY YOU’R3 NOT 1N TH3 MOOD.  
CG: YOU’RE DAMN RIGHT, I’M NOT.

\-- carcinoGeneticist [CG] is now an idle troll! --

GC: WH3R3’D YOU GO?

\-- carcinoGeneticist [CG] is back online! --

CG: DAVE JUST CALLED. I’VE GOT TO GO AND TOLERATE THESE DECOMPOSED PILES OF GOAT BRAIN FOR THREE HOURS. WISH ME LUCK.

\-- carcinoGeneticist [CG] ceased trolling gallowsCalibrator [GC] \--

* * *

They look so absurdly happy together it makes you sick watching them. John is sitting far too close to Dave, with their stupid pale clawless human fingers very obviously intertwined between their plates. You only managed to get through a third of your dinner before the urge to actually projectile regurgitate over the entire table became too strong.

“Tell Karkat the Japanese golfer joke, Dave,” John says, looking at Mr. McCoolshades with a look of absolute adoration in his stupid eyes that you _still_ can’t see in color, and you want to cover your ears and never look at him again. Dave turns to give John a look even more extra-deadpan than usual.

“Could you actually sound more domestic, do you think? I’m missing out a little here.” Dave’s deadpan evaporates into a mock-movie director demeanor, snappy tone and gesticulations included. “Come on, Egbert, give me a little more. Full performance. I’m missing out on the _married_ vibes, you hear? All right, now take two.”

John snorts and leans over to press a kiss to Dave’s cheek and you dig your teeth into your tongue way too hard. “He’s right. You two are married,” you say, your voice unnecessarily bitter, and John looks at you. His eyes, always expressive, are confused and a little worried now.

“Are you okay, Karkat?” he asks, and you cough up a humorless laugh like it’s solid poison.

“Absolutely fine and dandy,” you reply, and get up stiffly. Dave turns to watch you rub your face hard with both hands, although he can’t see you resisting the urge to dig your claws in and leave long scratches down your face. Actually, no, not _your_ face. Preferably the faces (and other parts) of the two absolute worm-fucking nitwits sat in front of you.

“Full?” he asks, but you know the question’s bullshit. Nearly your entire dinner is still left on your plate. You give him a look that feels like ‘fuck you’ and hopefully looks like it too. You can’t fucking deal with this right now.

“Yeah,” you reply, for John’s benefit, and dig a couple bills out of your back pocket. “I’m heading out.” You drop the money on the table and pull your sweatshirt on as you leave, shoulders hunched and head down.

It’s absolutely freezing outside. You’re a bit of an idiot, really, deciding to just walk out and walk home when all you’d done is throw on your old sweater when Dave had showed up in his brother’s car to pick you up. He’d only just gotten his license, lucky asshole. You were still half a year away.

It really does make you sick, watching them. You’re not even sure if you want Dave the way John’s got him, honestly. You definitely want him back as a friend, minus buck-toothed piano-playing bright-eyed distractions. You’d love to be able to grab him and kiss him whenever you fucking wanted, be able to be the disgustingly sweet couple who shares drinks and kisses in public. But you have a sarcastic, angry character to keep up, and you don’t know if you could ever be comfortable enough letting your shell go to make the kind of thing you want with Dave be real.

You’re shivering in earnest by now, and you pick up your pace a bit. It doesn’t help in the least. You’d hitch a ride, but you look like a mess. You feel like a mess. You doubt you’d be able to even get a mollusk to let you into its car in the state you’re in right now.

The walk back home is thoroughly miserable, just you and your thoughts and the air that’s so cold it feels stiff in your lungs. When you get back to your hive, you lock the door behind you and troop up the stairs to your respite block as quietly as you can. You stop at the top of the steps, listening hard, but your lusus is still peacefully sleeping. He’s getting old, honestly. Sometimes, when you’re not agonizing over Dave or school or regretting something awful you’ve said to Terezi because you’re upset with life in general, you worry about what you’ll do when he’s gone.

You push open the door to your respite block and close it quietly behind you. The soft green glow of your ‘coon looks extremely nice, but you put it off for a second, instead crossing over to your husktop and open Trollian. It takes forever to load, and while you’re waiting for it to open you bury your face in your hands and run your tongue across the roof of your mouth, around your fangs. You did something horrible to it when you bit it earlier this evening, because when you bend it certain ways it twinges with pain. Eugh.

Unconsciously, a terribly alluring, deeply forbidden thought floats absentmindedly to the forefront of your thinkpan. What if you had Dave to kiss it better?

Before you can travel any farther down that road, Trollian opens with a gentle ping and you open your eyes to find a single unread message from gallowsCalibrator. You click the softly pulsing notification and your conversation with Terezi from just a few hours ago maximizes to fill your screen. You read the line of teal text and your face finds its old place in the cradle of your hands once again. You think you’re going to cry.

GC: 1 M1SS TH3 OLD K4RK4T.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi yes im not dead


	6. Chapter 6

_July 2013_

Sometimes, though, you get him back. Like now.

Dave slams his chem book shut and looks directly at you, siding his shades a millimetre down his nose and peering through the double shield of the shadow they cast and his eyelashes. You meet his barely-visible eyes and raise an eyebrow.

“I’m sick of this,” he tells you, keeping his voice below a whisper lest the wrath of the librarian with the auntie glasses and sunken eye sockets come crashing down like thunder and lightning from the heavens above.

“Okay,” you reply, turning back to your own book. It’s another copy of the same one Dave has on his side of the table, because you blatantly refused to share. You have a habit of devouring the text too fast and then having to go back and reread a page or two to really comprehend what it’s saying.

“Kar _kat_ ,” Dave says, making you look up again. You raise both eyebrows this time.

“ _What?_ ” you reply in the same tone. Dave leans forward and closes your book on your hands.

“Just for old times’ sake,” he hisses, and breaks into an ear-gratingly off-key rendition of the chorus of _SING_ , the first thing you’d bonded over two years ago. You’d had no interest in MCR whereas Dave had been rather hooked, and it generated a lot of conversations—arguments, really—before you were finally convinced to give the band a try and fell into deep and irreversible love. With the band. You fell in love with the band.

You squawk and wrench your hands out of the heavy textbook, covering his mouth as hard as you can. He dissolves into hysterical laughter, and you can’t help yourself, the corners of your mouth twitching even as you try to glare. The librarian slaps a magazine extremely hard onto the table in front of her, and you both glance over at her like deer in headlights before you crack and collapse into giggles.

It’s actually the best day you’ve had in a long time, sitting there at the table and generally reliving everything you can think of from the past two years. There’s some pretty intense shitfuckery in there, including the time you and Dave snuck into the neighborhood pool at night and got busted by the old lady who lived next door in the house that you soon learned smelled of mothballs as soon as she invited you and Dave inside for a two AM cup of tea and a regaling with tales of her own rebellious childhood. That had been a good night.

The one thing that hurts is that every single instance you talk about occurred before John came in and slid smoothly right into the middle of your perfectly wonderful life. One of the best had been a mere month before the buck-toothed butthole happened, in which Dave had called you up with the dire news that his sister had actually threatened him with death for doing something he wouldn’t tell you and called you over to rig her apartment (in which she apparently lived alone?) full of booby traps. You’d had far too much fun, despite absolutely none of the booby traps succeeding, and a week or two later when you and Kanaya were going out together, you ended up asking her what Dave had done and discovered that she had engaged in an extended pick-up-line battle with/against him. Apparently it had seemingly died down before resurfacing many times, only when least expected and to the greatest annoyance one Lalonde.

“I must admit Rose was surprisingly irked,” Kanaya had told you, leaning in and whispering as if her human matesprit had ears all over the place, “but it was far too worth it to regret in the least.”

The memories kind of sting, but being able to see Dave let a little emotion show and laugh is so incredibly worth it. You’re just trying to regain your breath from a particularly violent bout of wheezing when an ominous shadow actually falls over the table, and you and Dave glance up in tandem.

The librarian, with lipstick smeared across her nonexistent mouth and her chunky beaded glasses string rattling menacingly, puts both her hands on the table and leans forward, making it creak with the weight of her bulk. She might as well be breathing pepper steam, for how angry she looks.

“The library,” she says, her voice trembling with anger, “is a quiet,” it sounds like she’s struggling to breathe, “place.”

Dave looked up at her. “And we,” he replied, “are not,” the corner of his mouth quirked up into an insolent smirk before falling back into resting deadface, “quiet people.”

The librarian may have actually snorted out steam. She expanded into a threatening mass that hovered like an overweight avenging angel for a split second, and then she lifted up your copy of the chem book in both hands and clipped Dave sharply across the back of the head.

“Fucking _hell_!” he shrieked, his voice ascending into the octaves above as he shot to his feet, knocking over his chair. He fled, and you fled with him, not pausing to grab your bag or apologize.

Dave skids to a stop at the edge of the front lawn, which, being part of your towns’ sprawling campus, is ridiculously huge. You’re both panting and doubled over, but wheezing with laughter, and you take one look at each other before collapsing into the grass under a low-branching shade tree. The grass itches your bare arms, and the hot, muggy air outside is an unwelcome contrast to the clean, cool air-conditioning of the library, and the only way you can get out of the blinding sun is by taking refuge under a tree like this (of which there are about zero point zilch of in this town, at least in convenient places) but you don't fucking care, because Dave is next to you and you're laughing your asses off and it feels like old times.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Strider,” you gasp despite the terrible cramp in your right side, clutching your stomach. “Way to fucking keep her happy. I seriously doubt we’re ever going to be allowed in the library again, together or apa—what?”

Dave is staring at the ground, his hands splayed flat in the grass. He glances up at you, and his resting deadface is completely gone.

Your stomach drops even as your heart leaps into your throat. That’s the face he wore when he first saw blue.

“Grass?”

“Green,” you reply, and then you want to throw up as he shoots to his feet and pulls his phone out of his pocket. He only takes three steps away as he calls John, and you tune out immediately as soon as the distraction picks up.

You can’t not listen to the tone of Dave’s voice, though, floaty and shell-shocked and so, _so_ happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> boom say whAAAT look at these fREQUENT UPDATES


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'frequent updates' lol yeah right bird you just keep telling yourself that

_August 2013_

You’ve always kind of hated the way waking up in a human bed makes you feel; sticky and unrested and cramped-up. Why on the entire everloving planet don’t they just go for ‘coons like all you intelligent, priorities-straight trolls do?

You sit up, glancing over at the lump in the blankets beside you. Dave’s still asleep, curled up in a burrito of most of the covers on the mattress. His shades are folded on the bedside table, the only part of him visible the messy splay of his cornsilk hair on the bed beside the pillow.

You scoot out of bed, careful not to wake the boy beside you, and stand silently. You’re barefoot, the shirt and pants you sleep in hanging off your frame. You’ve come a long way from the chubby little six-sweep-old you were when you first met Dave. The ablution trap door creaks as you open it, and Dave stirs on the bed behind you, but doesn’t emerge from his blanket cavern.

In the mirror, you look terribly skinny, the wide neckline of your shirt showing the stark lines of the bones in your shoulders. You clasp your fingers behind your back, stretching and relishing the way your shoulder joints crack. Your spine does the same, arching and popping several times in quick succession. You wonder if human anatomy does the same thing.

The sink is horrifyingly loud when you turn it on, and you cringe at the noise and hurry through a fast face-splash. The cold water sends chills down your back, and you run your hands through your hair. Your claws brush against the base of your right horn, and you suck in a sharp breath through your teeth.

The door creaks behind you, and you glance at the reflection of it in the mirror. Dave shuffles into the bathroom, his bangs a mess and shades anywhere but present.

You stop breathing.

Dave glances up at you, his eyes very clearly visible despite the way his hair is hanging over them, and you surpass forgetting how to breathe and forget how to think.

Wait, what the fuck?

You’ve still got your hands on your head, and you stare at him unashamedly in the mirror, your blood pusher galloping like a wild hoofbeast against your insides. Your eyes drift down, and you catch your breath—he’s shirtless, and his shoulders are broad and he looks far healthier than you do, lean and muscular and ridiculously pale, and—you look back up to his face—his eyes are _red_.

Of fucking course.

He breaks the silence. “Sorry,” he says, his voice rough with sleep, and you swallow and turn away, your hands falling from your hair.

“Yeah,” you respond, too fast, too loud. “No problem. You can—you can have the bathroom, I’ll just—”

You leave, your hands clasped on your chest. You push past Dave in the doorway and your shoulders brush. You ignore it steadfastly, and rush home.

* * *

\-- carcinoGeneticist [CG] began trolling gallowsCalibrator [GC] \--

CG: TEREZI I NEED HELP, I DON’T KNOW WHAT I’M DOING  
GC: H4V3N’T H34RD FROM YOU 1N 4 WH1LE.  
CG: I’M SORRY I’M SORRY OKAY I KNOW I’VE BEEN A FUCKING BITCH AND I HAVEN’T TALKED TO YOU IN FOREVER BUT SOMETHING JUST HAPPENED AND I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO  
GC: 1’LL L1ST3N.  
CG: OKAY  
CG: REMEMBER FOREVER AGO BACK WHEN WE WERE JUST SIX AND I SAW RED AND WE LOOKED IT UP AND IT SAID ALL THAT SHIT ABOUT ALBINOS AND  
CG: I WAS JUST OVER AT DAVE’S AND  
GC: OH MY GOD.  
GC: YOU’RE K1DD1NG  
CG: TEREZI I HAVE NEVER BEEN FARTHER FROM KIDDING IN MY ENTIRE FUCKING PATHETIC EXISTENCE I AM PANICKING RIGHT NOW  
GC: TRY BR34TH1NG  
CG: DON’T FUCKING SASS ME I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO  
GC: WH4T 4M 1 SUPPOS3D TO S4Y? YOU H4V3N’T T4LKED TO ME PROPERLY 1N MONTHS 4ND NOW YOU SHOW UP 4SK1NG FOR H3LP W1TH SOM3TH1NG 1’V3 B33N TRY1NG TO H3LP YOU W1TH FOR Y34RS  
GC: 1’M 4 L1TTL3 4NGRY, B3L13V3 1T OR NOT  
GC: 1 THOUGHT W3 W3R3 4CTU4LLY FR13NDS  
GC: D1D 1 SC4R3 YOU OFF?  
GC: COW4RD  
GC: STOP THROW1NG YOURS3LF 4 P1TY P4RTY FOR ONC3 1N YOUR L1F3 4ND F4C3 TH3 F4CTS.  
GC: K4RK4T?  
CG: CAN I COME OVER?  
GC: 1F YOU H4V3 TO

\-- carcinoGeneticist [CG] ceased trolling gallowsCalibrator [GC] \--

* * *

Terezi takes her sweet time opening the door of her hive when you knock. You don’t really blame her. You take a minute to look at her, really look at her, like you did at yourself in the mirror just this morning, and you feel like crying. She’s thinner than you. She’s always been tiny, but she’s hide and bones now. She props herself up on her cane in the doorway and somehow manages to stare right through you, despite her blindness and those fucking pointy shades.

“Can I have a hug?” you ask her. She raises her eyebrows.

“Maybe after you redeem yourself.” She stands to the side and gestures you in, somehow managing to pack worlds of arrogance and contempt into the single movement. You duck your head like a kicked baby barkbeast and follow her lead.

Her respiteblock is painfully familiar, floor covered in chalky sketches, bed and corners piled high with those abominable plushies. She has a new collection of posters and drawings tacked up on her walls. You go over to them, awkwardly, and reach out to touch a sheet of paper, splattered with an indiscernible mess of colors. You can make out red and green, blue, orange, yellow. A couple more remain gray mysteries. You feel sick.

“Well?” Terezi says from behind you, her voice so familiarly grating that you turn around and sink to the floor, your back against the wall, your face in your hands, yet again. Her footsteps tip-tap over to you and she sits beside you, in silence. A long moment passes, and she reaches out, her hand resting on top of yours. You lift your head and look at it. It’s cool and dry, a size or two smaller than yours. You turn your hand palm up and let her trace your fingers with her claws, gently. It’s incredibly soothing.

“Is this moirallegiance?” you ask suddenly, and she shrugs.

“I wouldn’t know. It might be.” She lets out a long breath. “Regardless of us needing to figure ourselves out and you being a terrible friend, you have other problems. I can listen.” Pause. Scoff. “Pretty much the only thing I can do, being blind in a world that depends on colors.”

“I’m sorry,” you say. She shrugs again.

“Not a whole lot I can do. Now talk.”

You talk. You talk a whole damn lot. You tell her about how John is taking Dave away from you and how good it feels when you get him back and how much it hurts when he leaves again, and you tell her exactly how your heart stutters and your stomach flips in the best way when he touches you, and you tell her that you think that it’s a crush you have on him but you don’t know because everything is such a mess and you’ve never had anyone to love and you’ve never wanted to love anyone before, and besides he has a soulmate and you’re fucked either way. You bring yourself to tears, and sniffle and don’t stop talking and brush them away roughly when they finally stop falling. She listens, silently, through the whole thing. Eventually her hand falls still and rests against your own, a silent reassurance.

When you finally fall quiet again, she lets the silence linger for a moment or two before saying “Talk to him.”

“What the fuck? No way,” you respond, your voice pretty much broken, croaky from crying and non-stop blabbering.

“You feel better now, don’t you?” she asks, and you laugh a little and shake your head.

“I feel a hell of a lot worse.” You feel empty.

“No you don’t,” she tells you, and you realize she’s right. You feel empty, you’re right about that, but empty like you’ve unloaded all the unnecessary baggage you’ve been lugging around and you’re free to go wherever you want now.

“You’re right.” You sigh and she scoots closer, pulling your head down to rest on her shoulder. She pats your cheek and taps your nose and tells you to listen closely.

“Go talk to him. Go tell him everything. You’ll feel a hundred times better than you do now, and then you’ll actually be able to have an honest conversation with him for once, and I promise things will work out.”

“Fuck that idea,” you say. “Imagine how awkward that would be.”

“It’s the only way to really get things sorted out.”

“I guess.” You sit up straight, rise to your feet. She does the same, levering herself up with her cane.

“You can have that hug now, if you still want it,” she offers, and you start sniffling again and accept. She’s too skinny. You’re too skinny. You’re both messes.

“I’ll stick around now,” you tell her once you let go. “I’ll stop being such an asshole. I’ll be a better friend.”

“I don’t believe that for a second,” she says, and grins.

* * *

_October 2013_

It’s the weekend before Halloween, cold and on the verge of snowing. You’ve spent the past few hours goofing off and kind of preparing with Terezi, but you’re just waiting now in comfortable silence in your respiteblock, and you can hear them coming up the street towards your hive far before they ever reach your front door.

You glance over at Terezi, sprawled on your floor, fiddling with the head of her cane, and she raises her eyebrows above her shades, like a challenge. You sigh and go downstairs. Answering the door is hard, but you do it, and put on a smile as they flood inside.

First Gamzee meanders in, looking just the same he always does with his juggalo face-paint. He wraps you up in a giant, warm hug, and you hug back. Gamzee is someone you know you can trust.

Rose and Kanaya come in next, Rose dolled up in black with cat ears and painted-on whiskers, Kanaya elegant in a human vampire cloak with a high collar and (what you hope is fake) blood dripping from the corner of her mouth. She gives you a hug too. You bury your face in her shirt and squeeze her tight. Rose nods and smiles. You’re still a little scared of her.

Dave and John come in next, in—you suppress the urge to vomit—matching pirate costumes. John’s gone all the way, with two of his teeth blacked out, a tricorn on his head and a hook taking the place of one of his hands; he’s got his fingers of the other locked with Dave’s. Dave’s shades are still firmly in place, with the simple addition of an eyepatch. Over the shades. He’s ridiculous.

“You absolute fucker,” you tell him, half-smiling, and you’re planning to listen to his response, you really are, but some new troll you’ve never met before trails in behind them and your ears shut off.

She’s tall and wiry, and she’s got this look on her face like she could judo flip you any moment with ease. She’s infuriatingly dressed in a set of completely average clothes (if steel-toed combat boots can be called average), her sign emblazoned in cerulean across her chest.

“Who’s this?” you ask, your tone clipped and unapologetically rude. She grins and offers you a hand to shake. You don’t take it. Her fangs are pointed, and she’s at least a head taller than you, her horns spiky and asymmetrical and threatening. 

“Vriska Serket,” she tells you, her voice low, husky and unsettling. “New troll in town.”

“Be nice, Karkat,” Dave tells you, monotone, and you whirl around to square up to him. You want to hit him in the goddamn face, want to break those stupid fucking sunglasses.

“Don’t fucking tell me what to do!” you snarl. John’s big blue eyes are wide and a little apprehensive over Dave’s shoulder. You glance at him mutinously before looking back at Vriska.

“You could’ve asked if you were allowed to come over before you just showed up on my doorstep, you know,” you tell her, loftily. She raises a single eyebrow, the precision of the movement stunning.

“Wow, I’m overwhelmed by your hospitality,” she says, sarcasm dripping off her words. You bare your fangs.

“This was an old-friends-only night!” You turn back to Dave and John, who’ve backed away. “Which one of you invited her?”

“Karkat, chill,” Dave says, his deadpan bordering on patronizing. “She’s just here to meet new people. She’s not that bad.”

You rake your fingers through your hair. You’re almost as tall as Dave now, you could take him down easily enough, but Terezi peeks into the room, before you can, nose in the air. “Everything okay? Karkat, you’re not going to blow up, are you?”

You exhale and shake your head. “Fine. Fine,” you repeat, a little louder the second time, turning back to Vriska, “you can stay. Just—”

You can’t think of an appropriate retort, so you just storm off into the living room, where a trio of snack bowls are laid out on the coffee table and a couple liter bottles of sickly-sweet human soda are fizzing gently next to a bunch of plastic cups.

The eight of you settle down quickly enough. Someone puts a horror movie on and soon the screams of the soon-to-be-deceased are providing an atmospheric backing track to the conversation. You can’t be completely at ease, though, despite Gamzee’s comforting presence beside you. Not with Vriska sat just a couch away, laughing at something Terezi’s told her.

The clock’s at half past eleven when John bolts out of his seat with no warning, his moronic pirate hat falling off and landing on the couch with a thud. The room falls silent. For once in your life, the sight of him doesn’t light irritation inside of you—instead, you’re almost worried.

“John?” Dave asks, rising halfway out of his seat. John looks around, eyes even wider than usual, dumbstruck. Realization dawns on you, and you bite down on your lip. You’re not sure if this is something you want to witness.

“What’s—” John looks around, the beginnings of a smile spreading across his face. “Is that—what—”

He points mutely to Vriska’s chest. Everyone looks towards her, and then to her symbol.

There’s a long silence. Kanaya breaks it.

“John, that’s blue.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no but for real i want this finished by july 5th brace urselves


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for underage drinking in this chapter sorry mom

Dave makes a tiny, choked noise, and your eyes go to him automatically. His face is turned up towards John’s, and his mouth is open. He looks absolutely dumbstruck.

“That’s—blue?” John turns to Kanaya, mouth opening and closing gormlessly. “That’s—that’s my first color. Who—”

He pivots back around to look at Vriska, and his gaze flicks upward to her eyes. You do the same. She’s got a pair of big-ass glasses on, but you can see blue bleeding into the gray of her irises even from across the room. Early bloomer, she’s probably no more than eight sweeps and she’s already nearly full-grown.

“Your—” John’s talking as if he’s broken. He looks from Vriska to Dave to Vriska again, wordless, and manages, “Blue? Dave, that’s not—”

“No,” Dave says, his voice like broken glass. He’s tense, almost shaking. “No, it’s not.”

“Not what?” Terezi butts in. You hiss slightly. Now’s _really_ not the time.

“Blue,” John repeats. “Dave’s eyes aren’t—they’re not blue, are they?”

“They definitely fucking aren’t,” Dave chokes out, standing up. John’s eyes jolt from Vriska and land on Dave. His mouth falls open.

“I thought you—I thought we were—”

“Apparently not,” Dave cuts him off, his voice full of mirthless laughter. He takes a couple steps in the direction of the door. John reaches out to him, stumbling closer.

“Don’t just run away, please,” he says, and Dave scoffs and skirts around him. He pulls off the eyepatch viciously, and steps on it. You cringe. He’s halfway out the door, almost gone, when Rose finally speaks up.

“Dave,” she says, that’s all she says, but he stops as if there’s an invisible wall in front of him and turns slowly. You look at Rose. She’s got her eyes fixed on Dave, searing into him. He lowers his head and takes one reluctant step back into the room.

A thick silence fills the space between everyone in the room, and Dave’s head turns to Vriska. She’s tense, coiled. You can tell. She’s a predator, but she doesn’t know what she’s gotten herself into. She’s unnerved, and ready to run.

“Fuck you,” Dave spits out, his voice surpassing broken. He sounds shattered. Rose’s eyes haven’t left him, but he turns on his heel, ignoring her, and strides toward the door again.

“Dave, no!” John starts after him properly this time, grabbing his arm. Dave turns, hands going to John’s chest. You want to look away. You can’t look away.

“Forget this!” Dave snarls, pushing them apart. John stumbles back.

“Forget this,” Dave says again, his voice quieter this time, but no less vicious. “Fuck this. This is all her fucking fault, but now we know, and you don’t have to bother with me anymore. You can go.”

“Dave—” John tries, and Dave lashes out.

“Don’t fucking _do_ this!” His hands are in his hair. You want to take them, want to hold them, want to calm him down. You want to, but you’ve never been good at that. You never have been.

“We’re done. We’re done! We’re not right, can’t you fucking _see_ that? John, it’s not me. I’m not yours.”

“But—”

“DON’T MAKE IT WORSE!”

You’ve never seen Dave this angry, this full of grief. “Just go. Please. Don’t make it worse.”

John gives him one last look, eyes—blue eyes—sparkling with tears, and dashes out of the room. Vriska bolts to her feet and follows. You don’t know if she’s following him or just leaving the rest of you.

Dave collapses. You go to him, Rose close behind. He’s got his face buried in his hands. You reach out, wrap your fingers around his wrist.

“No,” he says, voice muffled. You let him go and sit back on your heels. You’re not sure what to feel, what to say; your stomach is churning, you’re nauseous, but there’s a lightness in your chest. This is _not_ the time to be happy.

Rose puts a black-nailed hand on his shoulder, and rests her head on top. His breath hitches, and your stomach does a sickening somersault. He’s crying. You’ve never seen him cry.

Slowly, the rest of you crowd around him. Terezi comes and stands behind you, lets her hand rest on your shoulder. It’s grounding. Gamzee folds himself into a gangly package beside you on the floor, and Kanaya sinks to her knees beside Rose.

The six of you stay there for who knows how long, but eventually Gamzee rises to his feet and in his rumbly voice says something about taking a walk. He leaves. Rose rises to her feet a little while later, and runs her fingers through Dave’s hair before she goes as well. Kanaya’s hand is pressed to the small of her back as they go.

It’s just you, Dave, and Terezi now. You glance up at Terezi, still standing behind you, and she gives you a trio of taps on the forehead, raising her eyebrows. _Do it now_ , she mouths, and you turn away.

Moments later, her hand leaves your head and she’s gone. You’re alone, you and Dave, and he’s crying and you don’t know what to do.

You know you should do it now, tell him everything now. You know that if you don’t do it now you might never get another chance to, but he’s broken and you can’t work up the courage to say a thing, so you just reach out. He flinches away from you, and you draw back, but he turns toward you a moment after and you kneel forward and let him lean against you.

It’s awkward and the position you’re in kind of hurts but he’s warm and trembling against your chest and he’s stopped covering his face with his hands, so you’re not going to move anytime soon. You feel a little sick, but you’re also elated, over the moon that Dave and John are over, and it makes you even sicker that you feel so happy.

Thinking about this mess is only going to make you feel worse, so you tamp it down for now and hug Dave closer and try not to cry too.

* * *

_December 2013_

The music is making your head pound. You’re not entirely sure why you agreed to let Terezi drag you along to this stupid New Years’ party, and you think if you felt less generally terrible, you’d be pissed that she’s nowhere to be found and it’s only been an hour since you arrived.

Whoever’s house this is (a human owns it, you know that much) is packed with what looks like every single person from your school who was willing to come. It’s eleven thirty already, and people are kind of starting to converge around a human analog clock on the wall. They look mildly more sedate than the rest of the bodies filling the rest of this house, so you go and join them.

“Karkat!”

You turn. It’s John, sitting in the midst of a group of friends. Next to him is Vriska. They’re never far apart these days.

“Hi,” you reply wearily, going over to them. They’re the only people you can see that you know in this place.

“You look tired,” John says, worry tinging the edge of his words. You roll your eyes, but you can’t resist letting out a bit of a laugh, albeit sarcastically. Now that he and Dave aren’t together and he’s no longer the villain in your head, he and his bluntly forward yet still somehow tender attitude don’t bother you so much.

“No shit,” you say, shoving your hands in your pockets. He gives you a hint of a buck-toothed smile, and then someone calls his name and he turns to answer them. You hunch your shoulders and leave; you don’t know why you expected to keep his attention any longer than thirty seconds at a fucking _party_. He’s too popular, too nice, too approachable. Not like you.

Someone bumps into you from behind, and you turn, ready and primed to fire a volley of swear words at them, but it’s Dave and all your anger dies before it can pass your lips. 

“Hey,” he says, and your heart twinges. He’s lost weight in the two months that have passed between the breakup and now. You’re creeping up in him in height, too, almost tall enough to kiss him without stretching up on your tiptoes.

You don’t know why that’s the thought that chooses to cross your think pan.

“Hey,” you say back, your voice disgustingly soft. He gives you a bit of a smile, his cheekbones gaunt under his shades. You wonder how he can see a fucking thing in this lighting, with those on.

“Wanna go sit down?” he asks, and you nod.

You spend way too long trying to find a couch to sit on. When you finally do, it’s positioned such that you’re still effectively part of the little group that’s ogling the clock, which would be nice except it’s starting to expand. 2014 is creeping up on you. You look up at the clock. Thirteen minutes left.

Your stomach flips. Everyone’s going to be kissing when it hits twelve. You don’t want to. You don’t want to kiss anybody here.

That, right there, is a blatant lie. You would kiss Dave as much as physically possible when the clock strikes twelve, if things weren’t so fucking messed up between you and the rest of your little friend group.

Sitting here, with your leg pressed against Dave’s (there are already two other people on this piece of shitty furniture, there’s no room to do anything else) the urge to turn and tell him everything is almost unbearable. This really, really isn’t the right place, though, and if you’re the one who ends up pressed against him in—you glance at the clock—nine minutes, you’re almost positive it’ll do nothing but complicate this fuckery of a relationship even further.

Someone passes through with a bottle of something human and alcoholic, waving it vaguely around in the air, and Dave ends up being the one with it in his hand. He unscrews the cap and flicks it off. You watch it clatter on the floor.

“You want any?” he asks.

You shake your head, but five minutes later you’re taking a sip. You nearly spit it back out again as soon as it hits your tongue. It’s sickeningly sweet. “What the _fuck_ is _that_?” you gasp, thrusting the bottle back at Dave. He’s laughing.

“Strawberry vodka, you wimp,” he giggles, taking another drink straight from the bottle. “It’s nice.”

“It’s fucking disgusting,” you snark back, grabbing it again and licking gingerly around the rim. It’s still horrible, but you could see it being slightly less so after you get some of it in your system.

“Come on,” Dave croons, waggling the vodka in your face. “Live a little, Vantas.”

“Fuck off,” you tell him, shoving him away. He giggles again, and your stomach flips. He’s got a fucking adorable giggle. You should not be admiring his giggle.

“One minute!” someone yells from the little clusterfuck by the clock, and it bleeds out into the surrounding crowd. Everyone turns towards the clock, and someone starts up a half-hearted little cheer that dies out quickly enough.

The bottle clinks as it’s set down on the floor, and you look over at Dave, who’s sitting forward, as if he’s going to leave his spot beside you. Your hand goes to his knee without you giving it permission. You don’t want him to leave.

“ _Twenty seconds!_ ”

He turns to you, one eyebrow immaculately raised above the rim of his sunglasses, and you can’t look him in the face. Someone yells _fifteen_ and a real cheer goes up in the back of the room this time.

“Karkat?” Dave says, and his voice is vibrating with emotion. You look up, and his fingers tickle the side of your neck.

“ _Ten! Nine! Eight!_ ”

“Can I,” he begins, and trails off. Your blood pusher is in your throat. You hope to all things holy that he’s following the same train of thought as you are, because you don’t think you’re going to be able to stop yourself.

“ _Five! Four! Three!_ ”

With two seconds to spare, you reach out, shove his shades into his hair, grab his face with both hands and pull him in.

_January 2014_

The kiss is clumsy and electrifying, and he tastes like that fucking strawberry vodka and his hands are riding the line between gentle and not-so-gentle on your neck, your jaw, and he kisses back and you feel like you’re on fire.

You’re going to regret this in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> expect the ninth and final chapter to be up on July 5th >:]


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> its done holy shit,,, i'm sorry this isn't longer but i didn't want to make it unnecessarily drawn-out

_August 2014_

You are one lonely-ass fucker.

You came here with Terezi, but now you’re slouched against the wall alone and she’s across the room, sprawled across both Kanaya and Vriska’s laps. Her claws are flashing in the light (she’s taken to painting them outlandish colors), and you’d feel bitter that she’s not with you, but there’s something almost-pitch going on between Terezi and Vriska and you’ve been a giant drag lately regardless. You don’t blame her for wanting hang out with friends who have a little more passion for living in general.

You’re not sure who else is here, nor are you sure what exactly this party is for. You think it’s some kind of last-days-of-freedom before school starts again, but things have been so dull lately (despite the fact that you now have all but one of your colors, as far as you can tell) that there’s no real joy in an absence of alarm clocks and homework. When you’d first showed up here, you’d almost dared to entertain the thought that Dave might be here, and he might want to talk to you, but he’s nowhere to be seen and you’re trying to convince yourself to give up hope that he’ll show up.

“No one to talk to?”

Rose comes up beside you, hands clasped neatly behind her back, her posture starkly different than yours. You turn and look at her, her profile lit up pink, her lips glimmering black. You’ve never trusted her.

“Nope,” you reply, turning back and settling your shoulders back against the wall. It’s too hot in here.

“How are you and my brother faring?” she asks, her voice quiet but clearly audible despite the music blasting from the kitchen. Someone had ordered far too much pizza a couple hours ago.

“Fine,” you respond, words clipped. You don’t want to talk to _her_.

She makes a soft noise of disbelief, and anger flickers up in your abdomen, flaring around your blood pusher and climbing into your protein chute. You turn back to her, fully this time. Your upper lip is curled involuntarily, baring your fangs.

“Okay, you want to know what really happened?” you snarl, glaring. She turns, one eyebrow immaculately raised, as if you’re having an informed debate rather than a stilted conversation in someone’s low-lit living room.

“Do tell,” she replies coolly, and you resist the urge to slam your fist into the wall. 

“Your _fucking_ brother got drunk on human vodka and he tried to get me drunk as well and he—I mean, I—we—fuck it, we kissed, and he ran off two seconds after and we’ve barely talked since, okay? He hasn’t reached out a single measly human phalanx to try and reconnect and you know what, fuck him, and fuck you and your stupid therapist voice and your fucking relationship and fuck humans, I hate humans, remind me never to get close to a human again—”

“Karkat?”

You whirl around, your blood pusher pounding, and your eyes fall on a familiar face and it stops dead.

“Dave,” you respond numbly, automatically, and you turn back and Rose is gone, presumably having disappeared into the witchy void of fuckery from whence she came. You look back at Dave and let out a long sigh.

He’s got his hands shoved in his pockets, his shoulders hunched up around his ears. “Is that—were you talking about—”

“No, definitely not,” you cut him off before he can finish speaking. “Let’s go get something to eat.”

You end up sitting side by side on a kitchen counter, bracketed by pizza boxes and the sounds of two people—possibly three, you can’t tell—violently making out just around the corner. There’s an open pizza box next to you that’s still two-thirds full, and neither of you can decide exactly what’s covering it. Eventually Dave takes a bite, makes a face, and offers it to you.

“Hell no,” you half-laugh, shoving him away, but the only thing you can think of is that you kissed the last time you were alone together and neither of you have been able to pluck up the courage to talk about it in the past eight months and you’re going to blow a fucking fuse if this goes on any longer.

You adamantly don’t bring it up.

Somehow, he’s still fucking easy to talk to, and it makes you sad, that you can fall back into the easy back-and-forth you’ve had and completely ignore anything that could’ve taken you further.

There’s a lull in the conversation, and Dave glances in the direction of the possible threesome. His gaze hitches, and then he huffs out a little bit of a laugh and shakes his head, pushing his shades up into his hair.

“What happened?” you ask, following his haze. He’s looking at a magnet on the fridge, a new color that’s deep and rich and peaceful. You echo his little breathy laugh.

“I think that’s my last color.” you say, leaning back on the heels of your hands. He looks around, and gives a little nod.

“I think it’s mine too,” he replies, shifting to grab his phone out of his back pocket. Of course he shifts towards you, and your shoulders press against each other, none too gently. You don’t want to let him pull away.

He pulls away, of course, and taps something in. A moment later he shows you a picture of a color wheel, and yeah, you can see all of them.

“Well fuck,” you say simply, and he smiles a little. His shades are still in his hair, and you try not to make a big deal out of it, because then he’ll put them back on and you want to look at his eyes forever.

Of course he catches you at it, turning to meet your eyes as he sets his phone down beside him. Your breath flies away, and his brow furrows. He doesn’t let you look away.

“Huh,” he says, and the cadence of his voice sends tingles down your spine. “Your first color was red, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean—I mean, there are more people out there with red eyes,” you say, too quickly. You force a weak laugh. “I’m not entirely hopeless.”

Dave shakes his head. “You’ve never been hopeless, Karkat.”

You can’t look him in the eyes, so you stare at your shoes instead, because you know you’re hopeless and lonely and nothing he says can possibly change that.

“If you say so,” you mumble, and when you look back at him his shades are firmly in place again and he’s looking up something on his phone to show you; something stupid, and meaningless, but maybe it’ll make you laugh.

* * *

It’s pouring rain by the time you get home, but you can’t work up the energy to run. You’re dripping when you open your door, and you don’t bother going up to your respiteblock to change, just shaking off your hair in the entryway and going into the kitchen to make yourself a cup of human tea.

You sit at the table, your claws tapping out a half-hearted rhythm on the porcelain of your mug, inhaling the scent of whatever ridiculous flavor Terezi had made you pick out. You wonder what’s going to happen now. You wonder if anything’s going to happen ever again.

Your mind flickers back to the first time you’d ever properly talked to him, how fucking sarcastic he’d been and how much he’d annoyed you, and wonder how the fuck you ended up so desperately in love. You’re eight sweeps old and you’re falling apart, and you don’t know what to do except sit here with a cup of tea that a different race invented, and reminisce, and waste away.

You take a sip to soothe the lump in your throat and pull a face. You stand up to grab the sugar, and pause, looking at your distorted reflection in the metal of the cabinet door. It mutes all the colors you can see, but they’re still there, and something seems off.

There you are, with those knobby orange embarrassments protruding from your hair, your black sweater all the way up to your chin, which is gray, like it’s always been. You look yourself in the eyes, and your heart thuds for apparently no reason. Black pupils, expanded to take in the comfortably half-lit room, ringed with—

Someone hammers on your door and you almost fall over. You rush to the entryway and stop dead. It’s pouring rain outside and it’s nearly midnight. Who the fuck would want to come in _now_?

Your fingers find the doorknob without you really allowing them too. The hinges creak as you pull it open, and you freeze, utterly baffled, as Dave bursts in.

He’s soaking wet, shaking, his clothes clinging to his bony frame, shoes squelching on the floor and his breath coming in great raspy gasps. His hair is matted down into white-blonde strings, and he pushes it back with a hasty hand and yanks off his shades, not even bothering to put them on his head before he takes a single step forward and kisses you.

Your think pan short-circuits. He’s cold against you, cold and and trembling and dripping with rainwater, and his hands are on your waist and your hands find his face and you dig your claws in without sparing a thought about his vulnerable human flesh. You don’t think he really minds, because he’s pulling you as close as he possibly can, fingers trembling at the small of your back and his mouth pressing and pliant at once, barely letting you breathe.

Your entire front half is soggy by the time you finally pull away to take a breath, but he doesn’t let you go for long, his hands coming up to cup your jaw and pull you back in. He takes his time now, his blunt teeth nipping at your lower lip and before he goes back in open-mouthed and his tongue is in the mix, on purpose, hot and wet and soft and you gasp a little, still unable to think about anything but the pressure of him against you.

When you finally break apart your head is spinning. He’s looking at you with his eyes narrowed, and three silent, unbearable seconds pass before his face breaks into the biggest, brightest grin you’ve ever seen in your entire miserable existence. You can’t help but grin back, something high and happy bubbling up in your throat, and you pull him back in, kissing him one more time—softly.

His forehead finds yours, and this is all disgustingly cute but his arms are around you and you’re laughing, a little chirp surfacing every time you hitch in a breath, and he’s cold but getting warmer and you’re trembling from a mixture of cold and overwhelming happiness.

“What—” you finally manage to choke out, pulling a little back so you can look him in the eyes. “Why—how—?”

He’s panting, and he smiles, the shape of his mouth changing a little with every breath, and you think you could look at him forever.

“Your eyes,” he says breathlessly, grinning as if he’d never like to stop. “They’re gray.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can honestly say that the only reason this is complete is because of [NothingSoDivine](http://archiveofourown.org/users/NothingSoDivine/pseuds/NothingSoDivine). NSD, I love you with all my heart, and I miss you almost as much ;D <333
> 
> to everyone else: i hope you enjoyed this wild, drawn-out, unmotivated ride :D it's finished at last!!!!!!!


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